The boy cast a quick glance behind. There was nobody near.
“Flatiron! But you’d never guess whereabouts to look for ’em!”
“Come in here!” The man led the way to a telephone booth. “Now shoot out yer story!”
Blue did, the officer repeating it briefly to his chief.
It was all managed so quickly that the little party of four was soon under way, Fitzpatrick and Blue ahead, and two big policemen following.
It was the most exciting hour of Blue’s life when he guided the uniformed trio to the little triangular room at the top of The Flatiron. There were silent hand greetings to Doodles as they passed the kitchen door, but nobody ever guessed how the helpless little lad longed to be one of the party.
Blue pointed to the door at the end of the corridor, and each man grasped his revolver. Fitzpatrick motioned the boy back, and he allowed the others to go by; yet he kept close behind, losing sight of danger in his determination to see the affair to its finish.
Without warning the door was burst open, there were quick commands, mingled with oaths and pistol shots, followed by a fierce scuffle. Then the law-breakers were powerless in the hands of their captors, and Fitzpatrick turned to the little one on the floor, who in her fright had cuddled close under her ragged coverings.
“Hello, kiddie!” came a cheery voice from behind the tall officer, and as the child was tenderly lifted from her wretched bed she gave a quivering smile to Blue in return for his assurance that she was “going right home to mother.”
“Bring her into our room,” said the boy; “it’s much cooler there. Yes, we’ve had measles, Doodles and I, both of us,” in answer to the question.